Bridges
by sfiddy
Summary: Gleb loved Russia. In return it gave him a gun and a warm coat to keep it in. Or, how to compress two thirds of the show into a few scenes and let Gleb and Anya run away to Finland.


Despite frequent rains, Paris was a good place for walking. Bridges, statues, and buildings left the walker dumb to the passage of time, and entire days could be lost strolling past patina-crusted monuments and catching the chatter and music spilling from doorways.

Perhaps he could delay the inevitable and just keep walking by the cathedrals, cafes, and over bridges. There were so many of them. He took swallows of vodka from his flask at each.

But there was one in particular. The most beautiful, even a good Bolshevik like himself had to admit that. The Pont Alexandre, with its giant globe lamps, fat cherubs and -of all things- the Neva nymphs, was as proud a tribute to Russia as he'd found in all of Paris.

Like so many things these past few months, the bridge left him conflicted. It was a triumph and an embarrassment. He wanted to be proud that his Russia had received such glory, but the sheer waste, flouted riches, and obscene, bare-breasted nymphs cavorting around the oppressor's crest left him cold.

Gleb knew a Neva nymph. She had a broom.

Now she had a crown, Paris, and no use for a Cheka commissar and his tea.

Gleb paused, adjusting his coat. The weight was uneven and the right side pocket kept tugging the jacket until he felt lopsided and unbalanced. He could correct it, slip the gun into his trouser pocket, but not here. Not in the open. Things like him kept to the shadows, and there were lights everywhere, chasing away darkness and the misery that hid in it. It was still there, only harder to see.

Open his pocket and you could find it.

…

The next night Gleb walked, the gun was in his trousers pocket. He tracked down the club and the hotels and where everyone was staying and the restaurants where they ate. He could do it like others ran their daily errands. He was a Cheka officer, after all; they were his daily errands.

Now there was the waiting. Right time, right place, and right circumstances. Patience was a valuable trait, Gleb believed. When applied correctly, it yielded faster results than a rush to pointless action. With that in mind, Gleb bought a newspaper, selected a bench between a cafe and the hotel, and sat.

Every hour he stood and walked the length of the bridge. At ten, he admired the sturdy supports and well-cut lines of the railings, but raised his eyebrows at the ornate trimmings. At eleven, he considered the bright blown glass of the massive lamps and thought how well they looked in their rows, though he judged the sculptures they perched on. At noon, he took lunch in the cafe and weighed the entirety of it in his mind. At two, under a misting rain, he saw how curving flourishes shed the water, draining it away from the bases of sculptures and ornaments.

There would be no need for such ingenuity if they had just built a simple bridge.

He would not have spent half a day examining a simple bridge.

He would have been working, doing his part for the New Russia.

And yet, those plumes and spirals could protect more than just cherubs.

A familiar shape drew Gleb from his thoughts and forced him to draw the newspaper closer to his face. Changed, and yet so familiar. Not in a thick coat and boots, but a fashionable, gauzy dress that floated around her. Little shoes with a heel.

And a smile. As much as he wished it, he could not recall her truly smiling for him. Not like she did now, twirling so her skirts belled out around her in the sunlight.

Oh, Anya. She was a stranger yet as native to him as his daily walk on the Nevsky Prospect. Anya came from Old Russia; Gleb loved his New Russia, yet a princess of the old world had purpose in the new. Not like the ghosts that haunted the Neva Club, rattling their bones until their stolen treasures ran out. Useless, contributing nothing. At least the ornaments on the bridge protected the cherubs.

Anya had kept the street. She'd cleared paths through the snow and muck and did it again the next day because it was work and it served purpose. Hundreds of people walked where she swept, from the whores and conmen to the commissar. Anya was everything he loved about his Russia.

He swallowed. He had not meant to think that. Still.

Anastasia was supposed to be in the ground and there was no room for conflict in the New Russia. The bridges were strong and they needed nothing more than that.

Gleb kept the paper raised and watched as Anya was joined by the conmen. She spotted the nameplate on the bridge and laughed, bouncing on her toes. The conman laughed, too, and spun her around, dancing. When he set her down, her little shoes splashed in a shallow puddle.

Gleb kept hidden, but saw her look down and frown.

Now her feet were wet. Where were those flourishes now?

…

Music rattled from the walls, and dancing went on late into the night. Gleb noted the comings and goings of Old Russia; he could name most of them, but none were of interest. Sad, drooping, and sloppy with drink and memory, they could not threaten the new order.

One by one the lamps were lit, brightening haloes of evening mist along the street and across the bridge. Gleb watched the men as they checked the lights and moved on, amused by the irony of the Russian design and its current use. His Russia was not so decorative as all these Parisian wonders and yet it took Russian ingenuity to illuminate their streets.

The dowager made no appearance. The Neva Club could hold no appeal for an old woman. Gleb was certain she had the cold comfort of jewels and gold smuggled out as the Romanov dynasty fell. Was her family more valuable than anyone else's? Why should she have the advantage of wealth when others have lost as much and more?

How much gold did it take her to replace Anastasia?

Gleb unclenched his fist and took his hand off the handle of the pistol. The dowager was nowhere near, and as long as there was no 'Anastasia' the pistol would stay where it was. And Anya was no fool. She was a girl, a waif.

But there was a power.

A chill ran up Gleb's arms. The sky was clear and cold; cold enough that he turned up his collar and kept his head down. Hardly cold for a Russian, but he did not have his heavy coat with him. That was it.

Gleb tugged at his gloves and smoothed his coat as he stood. After sitting for so long he would have to walk, move his blood and siphon off some of this nervous energy. He straightened, rolling his neck and shaking the ache from his thighs.

It was late for a walk, nearly midnight, but this was Paris and there were lights everywhere and plenty of people still about, walking in and out of the shimmers and shadows. Gleb took a few steps once his legs were stable and looked around. People in pairs and threes walked the street, sometimes arm in arm. Sometimes closer. Now and then a couple paused between lamps to look out toward the water, and from time to time an umbrella opened only to close in a minute, the occupants hurrying off more quickly than before.

All of this as though there was no tomorrow. As if there was not another day to come that needed doing. Were this not his work, he would be in bed to prepare for the next day's tasks.

Well, the bridge was lit and, as a good and loyal Russian, he would go and bask under his countryman's work. The pavement was smooth and uncracked by the long, hard freezes of a Russian winter. There were paintings of snow on Paris, so it surely happened, but not this late in the year. Strange that he had been away for so short a time and yet already he missed it. Not so much the biting cold, but the sky.

Gleb looked up and could hardly make out the stars. A shame. This was the cost of Paris, a dark that gave neither peace nor rest. No cathedral ceiling could compare to the times he'd laid on his back in the snow, looking up at the dizzy starlit Russian sky cut here and there by pines.

If he lowered his gaze just a little, he could almost pretend that the tops of the lamps were the sharp tree tops, but Leningrad did not ruin the stars. The street signs were clear enough, but a man could not navigate by the stars here.

He sighed and looked down. In a fortnight, Paris had made him soft. Gleb shoved his hands in his pockets and walked on, turning to stroll over the bridge that so offended and fascinated him. A few paces in, he looked up, and stopped.

A woman alone, standing at the shadowy point between two lamps.

The rest of the bridge was deserted. The couples had moved off for better surroundings and possibilities.

The woman drew back and pitched a pebble into the river and for a second, the lampglow illuminated her golden hair. Unadorned, loose and untamed, catching on the simple coat she wore.

So, not a princess… yet. Gleb touched his pocket and felt the weight. He had his orders; could finish it now, before it could make headlines or create an incident. Efficient, just as he has been trained. He wouldn't even need the pistol. She would be another waif who fell in the river.

A waif who needs protection.

Another pebble struck the water. His tread was silent.

Could he finish it? He is his father's son. But who is she? Princess or street sweeper? How can she be both? You cannot have both. He cannot be his father's son and not do his duty; not serve his Russia.

Gleb left his childhood behind that day long ago, silence roaring in his ears. Had she?

And it was silent now. Even the pebbles kept her secrets in their ripples. Who was she? A princess who swept streets. A peasant with noble eyes. If she could do it, what did that say about him?

Gleb slipped into the darkness behind her. He could but… "There are many bridges over the Neva, and many pebbles."

Anya froze, then sighed. Her head tilted forward. "There are not so many lights."

No longer hiding his tread, Gleb joined her at the rail. "Did you come this far for the streetlamps?" The water below was smooth and calm. Pebbles made small splashes, ripples disappearing seconds after they formed rings.

"Did you?"

"No," he said, and saw the stones in her hand. Her coat was smudged from the dirt. "A good and loyal Russian has no need of such decorations."

Another pebble, another faint splash.

"Just because we can live without something, doesn't mean she should have to."

Had those words been said by anyone else his mission would be over. Had someone who knew the love and safety of family and home said those words, then one person would walk across the bridge and ripples on the river would reach the banks.

But Anya said them. Anya whose hands cracked and bled from windburn, who held her teacup long after it was empty because it was a tangible thing and still faintly warm.

"We are not savages, Anya."

She turned and he could see the bright lamp globes reflected in her eyes. "No, you follow orders." Pebbles scattered on the pavement and she looked up at him. "What are your orders, Gleb?"

He kicked a stone off the bridge. "That depends."

Her jaw flexed. "On?"

What calm waters below, reflecting the lights like a mirror. "On which bridges you cross."

When Anya turned her shoes crunched on the gravel she'd dropped. She gazed intently at the other bank. "My past is on the other side of this one."

Gleb found himself staring at her shoes. Proper shoes today. "Is your future there, too?" Sturdy enough to protect and last through a few seasons.

"I hope so." She looked up at the nearest lamp. Gleb had never seen her look so unguarded, so... wistful. "Every light is like a promise."

"Promises are dangerous, Anya. You should take your walks on other bridges."

She turned to face him, her face tight. "If I cross this one?" How her eyes shined, those eyes.

Oh Anya…

Gleb swallowed hard and shoved his hands into his pockets to hide their clenching. "I follow my orders."

His knuckles scraped the gun, a perverse reinforcement.

A vein stood out on her proud neck. "I grew up with no home or family. That does not mean should never have them." She gazed back at the other bank. "Someone is waiting for me on the other side."

"Someone waits for you here." The words flew before he could consider them. His heart and mind had lost their senses since he saw her on the Prospekt with her broom. They flew in opposite directions these days.

He scrawled his address on a slip of paper and pressed it into her hands. "I will wait for you here. I am alone. I will be there for another week."

She held up the paper in the light. "You expect me walk away from here? Do you think that you are that strong?"

Gleb's bones went spongy. The rigid stance of a Cheka officer slipped from him as his heart, for a moment, won.

"No. I tell you because I am too weak not to."

He only lingered long enough to see the look on her face soften, then he turned and walked in and out of the circles of light back to his rented rooms to wait.

…

Gleb did not take up his post the next day. He left his rooms only to eat and drink, then returned quickly to read and sit by his window.

Patience was a valuable trait.

…

The Prospekt was covered in shell casings. Anya dutifully trudged to the heaps of metal, adjusting her delicately arched crown of gold and jewels as she set herself to her work. As she swept, the casings turned to snow, piles and piles of it. In the distance, a truck backfired and with tired eyes she looked up from her broom to face the barrel of a gun. His father ordered her to turn and keep sweeping. Her dress was covered in blood as she calmly swept his father into snow. Piles and piles.

Then the scene changed. They were surrounded by pines and it was cold. She looked up, laughing at the dizzy spin of sky. A beautiful snow was falling, catching white fluff on her braid before it melted into a spray of dew that sparkled and danced even in the low winter light. She turned and smiled at him but he could not recall who he was.

Gasping, Gleb flung the sheets and blankets from himself and jumped away from the bed. The cold room shocked him back to his senses and he paced until the sun rose. It was only three steps in any direction.

…

He read the papers and looked for mentions of a lost and found princess. He found none.

…

Afternoon sun cut slants across the ceiling. The pillow was thin so Gleb cradled his head in his hand. He'd laid out a shirt but didn't bother to dress, and his soft undershirt was cool with the window cracked open to let in the breeze, clearing the stuffy room and his head.

On the fifth day he was tired of his walls, tired of the inactivity. He'd read all the papers and found no more than routine gossip. Now he lay on his bed, weary of newsprint and the petty comings and goings of exiled Russian aristocrats clinging to titles and a way of life that had no place but inside the Neva Club.

His foundations were not so fragile. No luxuries were found in the Vaganov house, but he learned loyalty and duty from his father, compassion and strength from his mother. Gleb had adapted and earned his keep, and now had a place in the new world.

And yet he'd had so much more than Anya.

The walls had heard him talk through a dozen different scenarios with himself, his superiors, Anya. But a strange calm had taken him and he examined himself coldly.

If the headlines remained petty and silent on the matter, the case might be closed, and he would have chased a ghost across Europe.

If Anya disappeared, the case could be closed, but he would have no evidence.

If she attempted to claim the identity of the lost princess… well, there were two possibilities. She was unsuccessful, and he must take her back as a troublemaker, imposter, and thief. If she was successful, he had his orders. Could he pull the trigger? His father did, and was a haunted man. The gun that made ghosts of the Romanovs made one more.

He was nothing but a man, with nothing but his orders.

He had _nothing_ but his orders.

His father had loved Russia. His father had his mother and it was not enough. Gleb loved Russia and it gave him a gun and a warm coat to keep it in.

A chill ran over Gleb's skin as he thought through it all with this new prism. In no scenario could he win. He would find himself at the end of a gun or in a prison camp within days of returning to Leningrad. Revolution was simple only if you cleaned up the mess carefully. Gleb, his family history, and the runaway Romanov were messy.

Could he pull the trigger if he'd been told? The gun on the desk had never jammed and was freshly cleaned. It would be clean. Russia would appreciate that.

Gleb sat up and the cool air gripped him. Was he his father's son?

A knock at the door jarred Gleb from his thoughts. He pulled up his suspenders and slid the gun into his pocket, aware now that silence from Leningrad might mean they had no reason to inform him of their arrival here in Paris. Gleb cracked the door open, ready for an attack.

None came.

"Gleb? Are you still here?"

In shock, he said nothing for a moment and the voice began to apologize in French.

"Anya?" He choked out. "Come in, quickly." He pulled her through the doorway and shut it behind her.

She looked tired and was dripping wet from the afternoon rains. Gleb took her coat and handed her a towel. "Did you see the Dowager Empress?"

Anya winced, but if he was blunt it was because he'd been locked in a room for days. She paused toweling her red gold hair.

"Yes."

The gun is heavy in his pocket. They would have to go out, take a walk. His umbrella is by the door.

But he is not his father's son; not in this way or any other. Gleb stood and stripped the blanket from his bed. "Here, you must be freezing."

Anya clutched the ends as Gleb draped the blanket over her shoulders. "Don't you want to hear what happened?"

"Does it matter?"

"I don't know." She hugged the blanket tighter. "I don't think they want me. They want a princess but, what does that mean? The dowager, Nana, is good but she is old. My life won't belong to me. I don't want maids and ladies in waiting. I don't want to waste my days doing my hair." Anya's voice rose. "I don't want to parade around in their silks and drink until sunrise moaning about a past I barely remember."

"What do you want?"

"What everyone wants," her voice cracked. "A home. Love and a family."

Bitterness. Gleb swallowed it down, along with the memory of her laughing on the bridge, spinning in her skirt. Snow in her hair. "I thought your conman would give you all that."

"So did I." Anya stood and went to the door, clutching the blanket. She opened the door and dragged in a trunk. It thumped over the threshold and Anya set it down carefully. When she turned back, escaped strands of hair tumbled loose, wild and trembling.

"Dmitry… Well," Anya chewed her lip and frowned. "He doesn't love Russia, Gleb."

A flower. The blossoms on her cheeks, the petals of her lips. His chest was tight.

"Despite everything, my whole life, I still do." She walked by, the edges of the blanket trailing on the floor behind her like a train. Frayed edges and loose threads did not bother her. "I love Russia still, Gleb."

Power.

"We can't go back. They would find us."

"I know." Anya looked down and tugged the blanket closer. "Nana knows, too. She gave me money to travel."

"What?" Gleb sat down hard on the bed. The springs heaved and squeaked.

With a shrug, Anya peered out of the little window by the door. "I won't be the Anastasia they want, so Nana is going to announce that she was given evidence that Anastasia died that day in Yakaturinburg." Anya perched on the desk chair. As soon as she did, her neck softened and she slumped, exhausted.

"I'm so tired, Gleb."

He stood, straightening the sheets. "Sleep. Take the bed. I'll go for a walk." He helped her up from the chair, her grip strangely light. Anya swept a street in any weather, and her hands were strong. But not today.

As she settled, Gleb slid into his shirt and reached for his coat. Locked in for so long, he could use the walk, see the sky. The bridge.

"No," Anya called softly from the bed. "Gleb, please. Please stay."

The coat hung lopsided from its peg, weighted down by one pocket.

…

They're leaving today. Anya will not tell him how much money her Nana gave her, but she insisted on dining out and reserving a private room on the train. Gleb will not search the trunk either. Anya deserved her secrets.

Early light brings the room to a glow. They have five hours until they need to be at the platform for the train.

"I dreamed of you," he said.

The mattress shifted. "I dreamed of me, too." Though she'd slept for nearly a day, Anya is still soft and drowsy. He imagined this might the most rest she can remember.

"What did you see?"

The lump on the bed snuggled deeper. "What everyone wants. What did you see?"

He could say anything, but he told her the truth. She deserved no less. "I saw you, standing in the snow. You were laughing." He did not tell her how the sight made his heart thump too hard. Not yet.

The lump laughed and turned over. "Was there a bridge?"

She was soft and sleepy and very very warm against him. "There is now."

…

There is a hill that has no name. It suits the new inhabitants.

The rivers are full of fish and the garden is heavy with roots and the last greens before the snows bury them. The house has an excellent cellar and there are jars and ropes of peppers and onions already stored away.

There is a bridge nearby. Far away, the waters underneath will kiss the Neva.

It is as close as Gleb will come to Russia. His worldview is still as red as his blood, but a certain calm descends when something does not want you and you love it enough to stay away.

There are stars at night, too.

"Gleb, come see the snow!" When you love something else enough that the first no longer compels.

From the table, he could see the window had indeed frosted over, so he left his comfortable seat near the stove and took his cup to the door. The cold air smelled of both fertile earth and crisp winter and Gleb shielded his eyes against the sun-bright new snow.

Blinking, he could see Anya spinning, lifting her arms up to the sky to catch flakes as if she just couldn't wait for them to fall to her.

"Look Gleb!" She laughed as she held out her gloved hands, heaped with fluff. "It's the first real snow!"

Gleb left his tea on the porch and joined Anya by the garden. Despite the hard year, rebuilding the house and lands, and the weight of heavy knowledge on her shoulders, Anya laughed and let the snow land on her face.

As the snow landed on her, it caught in her hair, highlighting and heaping as new flakes stuck.

His vision blurred. "Gleb? Are you alright?"

His eyes were watering. He could say the sun was in his eyes, for it was very bright. He could say the breeze had blown snow into his face. But he always tells her the truth.

"Yes, Anya. I'm just happy."

She'll throw the snow at him soon enough, and he'll love that, too. But for now he'll admire her crown of snow and think of the waters under the bridge that will kiss the Neva, his Russia. He will never kiss Russian soil again, but he is content.

He will kiss his Anya, and that is more than enough.

...


End file.
